


The Most Consistent Part of This Story

by santanico



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-07
Updated: 2012-10-07
Packaged: 2017-11-15 20:40:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/531460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/santanico/pseuds/santanico
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He jokes with her; sometimes he’s harsh but then he’ll look down, eyes sort of squinting and teeth in cheek and she knows he’s sorry for it, just too stubborn to admit fault. Joan can read him like an open book, and no matter how hard he tries to shut her out, she keeps getting back in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Most Consistent Part of This Story

**Author's Note:**

> I still hold tight to my position that proofreading is for wusses. Ignore all typos. Please.

Her life turns into a mess – but it’s a comfortable mess in a way, different from anything else she’s ever experienced. Years of being practical, years in scrubs and working in hospitals. It used to feel like happiness; maybe a thin line, like perhaps she was close to being fulfilled.

With Sherlock, it’s different again. She’s been a sober companion before, she’s been edged into the world for ages. 

Because of a mistake.

It takes a lot of control for her to sleep without tossing and turning on some nights. She watches the ceiling fan turn in his extra bedroom, listens to the television down the stairs, the quiet buzz of it all. She counts the minutes and wonders if he’ll sleep anytime soon, wonders what he’s watching because all she can hear are small voices and then sometimes it gets quiet, and she focuses in on the sound of the fan again. Then the TV will start up again and she’ll roll over so she doesn’t have to look at her alarm clocks, so she isn’t tempted to grab her phone and text him.

One of those nights she does. At first it’s because it’s only 10 and she wants to check her e-mail without getting out her computer, but soon she’s distracted, scrolling through apps and wondering what made her get an iPhone in the first place. She plays Angry Birds until 10:30 and then goes back to her main screen. Checks her contacts.

She scrolls through six names. Two of them are her parents, one of them is Sherlock’s, one of them is Sherlock’s father. The fifth is her ex-girlfriend, Mary’s. The last number is someone she hasn’t talked to in a very long time, someone she considered a friend before she left surgery.

She bows her head, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. She clicks on Sherlock’s name, then the message option. She hesitates to ask him about drugs, wonders how close they really are and if maybe it’s time she really finds out what happened to him. She hesitates to delve into his past relationships; she feels guilt for her assumptions, wonders if she hasn’t already crossed too many lines.

Joan Watson sits back and rests her head against the wall behind her. She tries to adjust the pillows but her legs still twitch and her back still aches. For a moment, she closes her eyes.

When she opens them, her phone is lit up with a new message. She checks the time – 10:42 – and then unlocks the device and reads the message.

It’s just a short line of text. 

_Would you like to help me with something?_

Joan spends a minute analyzing but there isn’t really much for her to analyze. Sighing, she folds her legs to her chest and reaches over to turn on the lamp next to her bed.

 _Right now?_ she responds, and smiles just slightly because if she said it out loud it’d seem exasperated. She feels exasperated, but also she wants to know what he’s thinking.

She wants to know what he wants from her.

_Yes_

Her iPhone beeps when the new message arrives. Too simple, too straightforward. One word, not enough for her to have any idea of what’s to come. Her stomach curls and knots and it’s definitely not from hunger.

_Should I get dressed?_

She could just go downstairs and get it over with, but for some reason that doesn’t seem like it’s what she’s supposed to do.

_Whatever’s more comfortable_

She smiles – he’s prompt. As she looks down at herself in sweatpants and two shirts (a tank top and a t-shirt overlaying it because it’s cold outside, dammit) and decides – to hell with it. If he doesn’t think she needs to be dressed then she doesn’t need to be dressed. No point dwelling on that.

She trudges down the stairs, unable to contain a small smile.

Sherlock is sitting at his desk. His desk is a mess, clutter and papers everywhere. On the desk is a Mac, one of the desktop versions, much nicer than anything she’s ever had. She wishes he’d keep it just a little more clean and that he wouldn’t eat bagels right over the keyboard. Those keyboards are expensive.

Sherlock swivels around in his chair. He’s got the same look about him, and he adjusts his sweatpants just slightly and smiles. “Joan.”

She tenses, licks her lips and watches him skeptically. “Yeah?”

“I wasn’t sure you were coming.”

She glances at the desk.

“What do you need help with?”

“I won’t ask much of you. Not now. You already do so much.”

Joan arches an eyebrow and leans against the door opening. “Just spit it out,” she coaxes, and for once, Sherlock actually looks notably nervous. He tugs at his shirt. “You have tells, too.” She gestures at his hand. “You keep adjusting your clothes.”

He smiles crookedly at her. “You’re learning,” he notes and she feels a rush of embarrassment and shakes her head, rolling her eyes. “As a…friend.” He pauses. “Can I call you my friend?”

“You can call me whatever you want.”

He gives a tiny smile, almost as if he’s laughing at a joke she doesn’t understand. 

“Come on,” she says, “I’m getting impatient.”

His smile widens. “You know my habits. Er, how do I stay this?” He runs a hand through his hair and she folds her arms and sighs. “Oh, you weren’t even close to be asleep. This is much more exciting, isn’t it? You’re anticipating what I’m going to say.” Joan just shakes her head but she doesn’t say anything else.

“Simple tasks. Orders. Decisions. You could make them…for me.”

“What do you mean?”

He’s frowning now, giving her an annoying look and tapping his fingers on the desk. 

“You saw the woman who was in here the first day. There’s only so much you can get from a woman like that. From paying someone. It’s release. It’s quick, it’s simple, it’s dirty. That’s…not what I want. Not entirely.”

“You want me to be your prostitute?” The words fall undeniably flat, and she’s giving him a look that she hopes is uninterruptable – but the tone in her voice, she knows, can be read.

“That isn’t what I said.” Tight and uncomfortable, the guilt comes rushing back.

Joan drops her arms. “I’m sorry. What do you mean?”

He gives her an almost nervous glance before knotting his fingers together. Instead his foot starts tapping on the floor.

“Like I said before. You’d…it’s grounding.” He seems to be rethinking what he’s saying, trying to get around it. “To have someone else in control, when things become hectic. A professional – someone like that woman – can’t help me be grounded for more than an hour, and that’s for a hefty price.” He unknots his fingers and returns to tapping them on the armrests of his chair. “I’m asking you as a friend. No strings attached. No sex attached. Whatever you’re comfortable with, _if_ you’re comfortable with it.”

Joan glances around the room, trying to look for something to focus on that isn’t Sherlock’s eyes. He’s got this intense gaze to him, something that isn’t entirely desperate hiding underneath. “For example?”

“You tell me to cook dinner. To clean the bathroom. To get the car when it’s too cold and you don’t want to step out in your high heels.” He smirks and Joan rolls her eyes.

She considers the damage – if she accepts, she’s nodding herself into a dangerous position. She’s agreeing to indulge him. But the point of her presence is to stop him from using drugs. Other methods are often helpful; she would never judge him for his choice in coping.

“It’s my job to help you to succeed in getting off the drugs. But you know this can’t go on long, don’t you? You know I leave soon.”

Sherlock eyes her for a long moment, tilting his head to the side. She blinks, twitches, averts her gaze as something uncomfortable pulls at her stomach. He doesn’t stop looking at her for what feels like forever, his eyes unblinking. Then, folding his hands over his stomach, he says, “You could stay.”

“I’ll think about it.”

He jokes with her; sometimes he’s harsh but then he’ll look down, eyes sort of squinting and teeth in cheek and she knows he’s sorry for it, just too stubborn to admit fault. Joan can read him like an open book, and no matter how hard he tries to shut her out, she keeps getting back in. 

It’s of no fault of either of them, then, that they fall into a certain rhythm of sorts – that they start to trust each other and ache for the other’s company. Joan will sit in bed some nights reading by lamplight and she’ll hear him jostling around in the kitchen. Curiosity – that’s all. It isn’t that she wants to get involved with Sherlock’s life…she just wants to know. She likes knowing.

So she’ll slide downstairs on nights like that and watch him as he concocts some stranger recipe in the middle of the night without even breaking eye contact with his bowls and ingredients.

Then, after he’s sit it in the oven or on the stove or even the microwave, he’ll turn and say; “I made enough for two.”

It startles her, every single time.

“Get me a bag of something.”

(Later he’ll note to her that the request wasn’t specific enough. She keeps track.)

“Go call a cab.”

He leaves the room quietly and without complaint. 

She starts to like this role, unsure how she ended up in it.

“Coffee’s ready.” Always a pause. “Come and get it when you want.”

He listens. Sometimes she feels like she’s being undone by the process, sometimes the pressure starts to well up and it becomes almost unbearable. This isn’t part of her job – and she tries to convince herself that it’s okay. That professional and personal are separate.

“Open your mouth.”

Mostly he listens to that order. Sometimes he just gives her a scowl and she raises her eyebrows, contending him. Every drug test has come back negative, but it’s only been three weeks.

How many murders will he solve before she has to go?

Or maybe he’s right; maybe she can stay.

“I need you,” he says, but not in the way that men say it on TV, not with that hard desperation that Joan always found sort of terrifying, too guilt inducing. Like manipulation. Instead, Sherlock says it honestly, and rarely does Joan think he speaks like this. “You keep me grounded.”

“Mm,” she murmurs, sipping from her coffee. He always gives her an incredulous look when she adds store bought creamer to her mug. She always tells him to shut up. He likes his black. “So that’s what this is about?”

“What’s this?” Sherlock asks, and their voices hold equal tone, the same mood. Quiet, reverberating. Winter is chilling them both to the bone, but blankets and coffee make it all right.

“Me telling you what to do. It keeps you grounded?” She glances at him sideways, wonders how much of her face he can see.

“It’s more than that.” He bites his lip, chews for a second before running his fingers impatiently through his hair.

“Careful with that coffee,” she warns, unsure why – it isn’t her couch that’ll get stained, not her legs that’ll be burnt.

“Could I ask you for more?” he says, ignoring her.

“You could ask.” She takes another sip. “Of course I can’t make any promises.”

“I understand that.”

“So what do you want?”

“Less control.”

They write out a middle ground, they find safety in each other. He talks about wanting his wrists tied behind his back and she asks “How?” He offers her answers and solutions and she comes back with questions, always looking for the specifics. Joan thinks he appreciates it, because for Sherlock it means she’s taking him seriously.

She’s taking him deadly seriously.

“Just for half an hour.”

“Tell me if you want me to unlock them earlier.”

“I will.” They even use a safeword. Keep things simple.

She leaves him blindfolded in handcuffs in the dark of his bedroom and says “I’ll be sitting in the hall.” She keeps both their cell phones next to the chair she drags from the kitchen and sits down with a book.

Sherlock doesn’t complain for a second. 

Joan thinks that maybe it can really be this easy.


End file.
